The One Where Everyone Dies
by saving private bullshit
Summary: Dean and Sam live in District 12, and their dad isn't much of a dad, and now they're pretty much going to die. hunger games au, eventual destiel and semi-sabriel.
1. Child

This (like pretty much all my stories) was originally posted on my Tumblr, just in case anyone had stumbled across that and wondered what the fuck one of those stories was doing on here.

If I owned Supernatural or The Hunger Games I wouldn't be writing fanfics, now, would I?

* * *

Dean Winchester sheathes his knife, shoving a now-headless rabbit carcass into his bag. Briefly he debates whether to sell it or cook it for Sam and himself and maybe their father, if he decides to come home that day. It's doubtful he will, though.

He takes another look at the jagged tear in the rabbit's flesh that goes straight through its liver. It doesn't look fantastic, but it isn't the worst thing he'd ever sold and he knows he'll get at least enough money for a couple of vitamin supplements. They'll be years old and much less potent than when they'd left the Capitol, but Sam's a growing kid and Dean's determined to provide him with more than the typical Seam diet of stale bread and bits of small game.

Uncovering the tunnel leading back out of the woods, Dean crawls under the fence, stopping for a moment to unhook his belt loop from where the rusty cyclone fencing has snagged it. The fence is only just sizzling to life, but even on full power it barely manages to shock anyone. Once, just after their mother had died, Sam had tripped and fallen into the fence. For a torturous millisecond Dean thought him dead for sure, burnt to a crisp by the wires, but Sam picked himself up and brushed the dirt from the seat of his pants.

After Dean finishes his selling and buying, he makes his way down the hill to the house. It's a run-down little thing with no windows and a roof that leaks in the rainy months but he supposes it could be a hell of a lot worse.

"Happy Reaping Day."

Sam greets him at the door and takes his bag, emptying it onto the table. A tiny mason jar of wax and two bluish pills roll out onto the knotty wood.

"Ah, great, we needed some of this for the sink," Sam comments, turning the jar of wax over in his hands. Dean nods.

"Yeah," he says, hanging up his father's leather jacket on the nail they'd put in the wall and brushing Sam's bangs down over his eyes on his way to the sink. "'S why I got it, Sherlock."

Sam scowls as Dean hands him a cup of water. He bites his lip and looks briefly at the edge of the table before his eyes dart up to the door, then downs both vitamin pills in one go. His eyes, however, stay deliberately low and Dean's eyebrows knit together.

"What is it, Sammy?"

"What? Uh. Nothing," replies Sam unconvincingly, shifting his weight to his other leg. "Dad stopped by this morning while you were out aaaaaaaaand he had some stuff for me to give you."

Dean's eyebrows shoot up almost into his hairline and he pauses in the process of cleaning spinal tissue from his bag.

"Well, lay it on me," he says, and Sam glances towards the bedroom.

"It's in there," he says. "Whatever it is, he said he found it laying in a box and decided you might have some use for it."

If Dean's eyebrows could go any higher, they would. Their dad hasn't given a fuck about them since their mother died, and even before then he only cared enough about them so that Mary wouldn't divorce him. So when Sam tells Dean he's got a special delivery from Papa Winchester, forgive him if he's a bit surprised.

He heads into the bedroom and finds a butcher-paper-wrapped parcel sitting on the covers. It doesn't have a note or anything on the top of it, typical Dad, but holding the brown wrapping together is a small pin. It's kind of dull— it probably used to be shinier but the Seam isn't a good place for keeping things looking brand-new— but it's obviously got some heavy sentimental value attached to it. Dean unpins it from the package and sets it on the bed as he unwraps the gift.

It's a light blue buttoned shirt, slightly yellowed from age and life in District 12, and a pair of black slacks. Both of them are coated in a thin layer of coal dust— again, District 12 life. Dean tries them on and has to wear a belt to keep the pants from falling about his ankles, but walks out without it to get a laugh out of Sam. He washes his face, hair, and armpits in a bowl of tepid water before pulling his pants back up and putting the belt on again, leaving his shirt untucked until Sam decides to fulfill his job as mother hen and nags him until he tucks it in. Dean returns the favor when Sam washes himself and gets dressed in the clothes Dean wore last year for the Reaping. Jesus, that kid almost grows too fast for Dean's hand-me-downs to keep up with.

They leave the house and end up in the square in the first wave of people to arrive. Peacekeepers have their tables set up and Dean gets his finger pricked for his sixth time, Sam for his second before they can enter the area set up for the audience. They separate now, Dean off with the other seventeen-year-olds and Sam with the younger ones. Dean chuckles. From where he's standing he can see Sammy's head and the top of his shoulders sticking out like an appendix amongst the sea of his shorter classmates.

"Hullo."

Half the audience jumps at the sudden loudness while a couple of Peacekeepers twiddle with the sound system on the stage. A shortish man clad in all black stands at the microphone, and he gives it a short smack before continuing. The sound makes the audience flinch.

"Hullo and happy Hunger Games to you miserable lot," he drawls. His skin contrasted with the rich darkness of his clothing gives him an elegantly hellish appearance and makes his skin even more white than it already is. "Are you ready to sentence another two young folks to death? I sure am."

The man's name is Crowley. He took over the job of MC-ing Reaping Day for District 12 after his predecessor Lilith got the train of her dress caught under a high-speed train coming from the Capitol. Needless to say, she died and he went up in the Capitol's hierarchy. You'd think he'd be a bit happier than he is.

The tape starts playing, startling Crowley, and he curses at it before turning to watch the brief documentary. It's more like propaganda, detailing the rebellion and subsequent defeat of twelve of Panem's districts and the annihilation of the thirteenth. The good thing is, it's relatively short, and before long Crowley's sticking his hand into the reaping ball and holding the names of two lucky winners. Er, losers.

"Let's see who gets to die this year," he says cynically, opening one of the papers with a fingernail.

This is the moment where the audience goes completely silent, not moving, not even daring a breath. Dean fears for Sammy with his two entries, ignoring the thirty-someodd slips with his own name written on them. Does one of the two sit in Crowley's hand? He pushes the thought to the back of his mind, hoping desperately that, just like last year, Sam's name lays at the bottom of the ball, safe from Crowley's fingers.

_May the odds_, Dean thinks, hoping it reaches Sam from across the crowd, _be ever in your-_

"Samuel Winchester."


	2. Brother

So maybe I had written the first couple of parts earlier this year.

* * *

There is cotton in his ears.

Well. Not really. But that is what it feels like, standing there in the crowd, hundreds of people away from his brother. Sammy's shoulders go rigid and slowly the crowd begins to thin around him, giving him room to wade through to the stage.

"Sammy!"

The words are alien tearing from his throat, and his voice sounds far away. Dean makes to lurch forward, put himself up for the death sentence his brother is resigning himself to, but there is weight in his armpits holding him back. He doesn't remember the Peacekeepers being there earlier. When had they-?

"Sammy!" Dean hollers again, his throat dusty from the District 12 air. Little Sammy who was still four-foot-something and hasn't even learned to swim yet climbs the stairs to the stage, his face utterly unreadable. Good. If he were crying, Dean wouldn't be able to hold himself together. His palms are slick with sweat and wiping them on his trousers doesn't help at all. He feels feverish. He wants to go home and lay in bed and go to sleep and then wake up to Sam sitting on the bed by his hip, mopping his sweaty forehead with a cool, wet rag. Not this.

Crowley must have done some obligatory transition because Dean sees his arm once again dive into the reaping ball. It returns with a new slip of paper and Dean is stuck here, thinkingplease let it be someone strong who will let Sam win. Please.

His thoughts are interrupted by Crowley's voice again.

"Dean Winchester," he says with a raised eyebrow. "Don't be shy, darling."

And just like that, the Peacekeepers have released his arms. Dean can hardly believe his luck. Er. Well. The stuffing is free from his ears now and everything is horribly loud. No matter. Dean faces the crowd with a renewed sense of determination, even if he's doomed. He sets his mouth in a thin line and crosses the square in great, loping strides. This is a man on a mission, and he'll be damned if he shows the crowd a weak coward as he takes the steps two at a time to stand next to Sam on the stage.

Sammy. This time, Sam's face crumples and he coughs to get it back into a somewhat respectable expression. Dean shows no signs of noticing, staring the crowd down with a look he hopes clearly saysthis is my brother, and he will not show Reaping Day footage to all the tributes, but it's not entirely a bluff; Dean fully intends to make sure Sammy with the shaggy hair and upturned eyebrows from the Seam wins.

As Crowley makes his closing remarks, four Peacekeepers step up onto the stage to flank the brothers as they are escorted into the Justice Building.

Chuck Shurley scratches absentmindedly at his three-day-old stubble. For days now he's been poring over maps of previous arenas, trying to see what went wrong where. Of course, this is a silly notion, as nothing the Gamemakers ever manufactured has ever been less than perfect.

_Nervous Chuck, getting performance anxiety, are you? You didn't get this job for nothing._ He turns back to the blueprints.


	3. Orphan

... and by "a couple" I meant three.

* * *

The Justice Building is much more austere on the inside than it appears from outdoors. This is the first thing Dean picks up on as the Peacekeepers march him and Sam side-by-side down the hallway and into a room at the end. They don' accompany them in, though, and the double doors shut with a solid thump that can only mean they're locked.

Sam's first reaction is to sink down into the lone chair in the corner and stare straight ahead. There's none of the boyish light in his eyes anymore, the Reaping took that from him. But the part that kills Dean more than any tribute will is the fact that Sam's only thinking about how Dean might die.

He sighs, kneeling in front of his little brother and putting a hand on his knee.

"Listen, Sammy," he says, stroking his kneecap with his thumb. "I'm not going anywhere, okay? We're winning, and then we're going home together. It'll be over, it'll pass."

Sam drops his gaze, still not meeting Dean's eyes but at least he's staring at his forehead. That's progress.

"I'm not coming out of this, Dean," he says, all in a breathy rush. "It's gotta be you, okay, they'd never let two people win, it's gotta be you-"

"No, Sammy," says Dean firmly. Realizing he's been too fierce and this is poor Sammy who's probably imagining his own death, he lets a weary smile quirk the corner of his mouth.

"Shotgun shuts his cakehole, yeah?" he amends, ruffling Sam's shaggy brown mop of hair. He's just about to say something soulful and big-brothery but just then the doors fly open and John Winchester enters the room with a storm around him.

He's a large man, not freakishly tall like Sam but broad, strength barely hiding beneath his coal-dusted skin. His salt-and-pepper hair has been washed but not dried and then hastily combed. The clothes he's chosen to wear this Reaping Day are faded and Dean recognizes them as the ones he'd worn the day they'd all come here to the Justice Building to honor one Mary Winchester, loving wife and mother, deceased. How fitting that he'd worn it to honor his wife's death and he'd worn it to see his sons sentenced.

Anyway, before either of his sons can say anything he's traveled the ten paces between them in two steps and gripped Dean tightly by the shoulders.

"I've got three minutes," he says, and the way the Peacekeepers are positioned at the doorway tells Dean they really do have three minutes. This could be the last three minutes Dean ever has with his dad.

The look on John's face says this could be the last three minutes he has with Dean or Sam, too, but as usual there's no personal note in his voice, just the gruffness that had replaced it when Mary had died.

"Dean, keep him alive," he tells him, looking him dead in the eyes like if he doesn't, he won't get it.

"Dad, Sam's not stupid," Dean replies coolly, drawing away mentally and physically from the grip on his shoulders. "He's a big boy now, he's not going to just go running off and get shish-kebabbed by some overcompensating Career."

It takes a few seconds for John's face to soften, but it goes from diamond to gold. There's no sign of Dean's words breaking through unless you've known the man for your entire life, and Dean can see the chink he's hit in his father's armor. For a minute he almost feels bad.

The Peacekeepers enter the room and one of them takes John by an arm and only then does Dean realize this conversation's taken up their last three minutes. In an instant he reaches forward, a protest dying on his lips but John takes it up himself.

"Dean."

He reaches his free arm out and tosses whatever it was in his hand when the Peacekeepers keep him from reaching his sons again. Dean barely catches it before it hits the ground.

It's the pin he'd left at home. Now under the stark white lights of their cell in the Justice Building he can see there's a horned face of some sorts. The thing is either copper or very weathered brass, Dean supposes, and it's got to be very old.

The doors slam shut and they're alone again.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

It was only a matter of time before Castiel saw this room, but when the moment came, it felt surreal. His fellow tribute, Anna, stands at the far end of the room with her arms crossed, but otherwise looking completely devoid of emotion. He knows her, though. Her knuckles are white at the tops, her stance is too narrow to be relaxed, she holds her shoulders almost perfectly still, and the way she's holding herself mere centimeters from the wall is proof of her unease. It's understandable, given their situation.

They're both going to die in a matter of a few months.

This is a well-known fact. They are the worst in their school, almost dead-last and therefore likely to be picked off in the starting bloodbath.

"Maybe we'll get lucky."

Anna can practically read his thoughts. She moves from her spot against the wall and looks out the window pensively. Castiel allowed her this moment before he shot down her desperate hope.

"You know we won't," he tells her, matter-of-fact and utterly calm. It's really no use keeping up the illusion of hope, especially when everyone in their class knows District 2 won't be taking home the title this year. And even if they did, one of them would be dead.

What a welcome party that would be.

:::: :::: :::: ::::

Chuck runs a hand over the stubble that's been growing steadily for days now. Give it a week and he'll have a full beard. His eyes skim over plans and blueprints and his fingers ghost across the screen in front of him feverishly. He's been a nervous, insomniac wreck since he first got the job and it hasn't even shown signs of letting up yet.

_Got to build, got to build, got to build._

The arena flows out of him like mercury and comes to life on the globe at the center of the table. The lower gamemakers regard it briefly before going about their jobs as usual, like they weren't busy fixing the deaths of twenty-four teenagers.

_Twenty-three,_ he reminds himself.

"No, twenty-four."

* * *

_THAT MEANS THEY GON' DIE._


End file.
